The Road Home
by Tracy Diane Miller
Summary: This very short story is a "missing" scene to Fatal Edition.


The Road Home  
  
Summary: This very short story is a "missing" scene to Fatal Edition.  
  
Disclaimer: Early Edition characters belong to whoever created them. No copyright infringement intended. No profit is being made.  
  
Author: Tracy Diane Miller E-mail Address: tdmiller82@hotmail.com  
  
The Road Home  
  
He stole one final glance with her, but no words were spoken just smiles of understanding. Then he entered the waiting cab that would take him on the road home.  
  
He let out a relieved sigh, a deep breath that cleansed his soul. For days, he had been almost afraid to breathe or to stop moving. He was a hunted man and just as relentless bloodhounds and equestrians on powerful horses throbbing with determination pursue the sly fox, he had to be cunning because he was running for his life. Now the running was over.  
  
She let out a sigh, too, relieved and happy, but also exhausted and that shook him from his musings. Marissa. Her weary face told of sleepless nights and days when she had been consumed by worry for his safety. He saw unshed tears of relief in her sightless eyes as she stared straight ahead. He reached for her hand, gently squeezing it in a comforting gesture. "It's over." He repeated, then paused to allow the words to sink in for his own benefit as much as for hers.  
  
The cab proceeded down the Chicago streets. Traffic signals changed predictably from green to red to yellow offering a mini rainbow of light to illuminate the darkness of the streets as the cab reached Lake Shore Drive. The cab stopped, waiting for the traffic signal to change. He looked out of the window of the cab. The pavements were quiet. But he saw a couple walking towards a brownstone. The man's arm was protectively around the woman's waist while she rested her head on his shoulder. Both of them were smiling. They were nameless phantoms to him but the expressions on their face spoke of a young love hopeful and unspoiled by heartache.  
  
Finally, the cab pulled up to the pavement outside of McGinty's. Home. He looked up at the neon McGinty's sign. At that moment, it was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen.  
  
Marissa paid the fare and both of them exited the cab. They walked the short distance to the bar. Marissa took her keys out of her purse, placed them in the lock, and opened the door. She turned on the lights.  
  
His eyes feasted on the bar. Those eyes traveled around, taking mental snapshots of every corner, every cranny. He realized that he had always taken the place for granted. But after the last several days of sleeping on the street, hiding in alleys and cars, and lurking behind corners, he was looking at McGinty's from fresh and appreciative eyes.  
  
Silence.  
  
He sensed that Marissa didn't want to leave him alone. It was just like when he had been wrestling with guilt over Jeremiah's death. That time she didn't want to leave him alone. But he could see the exhaustion on her face now and he wanted her to go home and get some rest. He would be fine. Besides, he planned to surrender to exhaustion himself once he was inside the loft.  
  
"Marissa, let me call you a cab. You should go home, get some rest. " He said.  
  
She looked at him again, not seeing him with her eyes, of course, but with her heart. Maybe he needed to be alone. But she wanted to take care of him, fix him something to eat, and talk to him if he needed to talk, nourish his body as well as his soul.  
  
"I'm fine." He added before she had the chance to respond. "And we can talk tomorrow." He reassured.  
  
She smiled. Then she gently caressed his face. "Welcome home, Gary." She replied simply, but he knew that her words held much more meaning.  
  
Fifteen minutes later, he was alone. He climbed the stairs to the loft. Opening the door and turning on the lights, he paused for a moment. He was so tired, but it wasn't exhaustion that had halted his steps, but gratitude. He surveyed the loft and just as he had done downstairs took mental snapshots. Walking inside, he felt like a soldier returning home from a war to the home that he feared that he would never see again, the home that had comforted him in his dreams when life seemed uncertain.  
  
He proceeded to the shower. He allowed the warm water to clean the grime of the street and to soothe his tense muscles.  
  
A few moments later, he collapsed in his bed. He prayed that his exhaustion would ward off all the haunting images from his ordeal. Tomorrow he would have to face The Paper. He would probably have to face Armstrong or Brigatti. He didn't know whether he would face charges for his escape from custody. But he wouldn't think about any of that right now. Right now, he was neither a hero nor a fugitive. He was a man who had survived his own hell and had made it back to the road home.  
  
The End. 


End file.
